Carnevale di Venezia
by Sachita
Summary: Venice in 1946: She loved him, but he was pure poison. Minerva McGonagall/Tom Riddle.


_Hello everyone! This is just a Tom/Minerva oneshot, also to honour the Carnival of Venice that is taking place these days. It's a wonderful time in a wonderful city and if you have the time and are able to get there, I can only recommend it. _

_This story is for** iviscrit**- thank you for the inspiration and I hope you like it!_

_I apologise for mistakes, English is not my first language. So now, enjoy :)_

_Sachita_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended._

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><p><strong>Carnevale di Venezia<strong>

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><p><strong>Venice, Italy, 1946<strong>

Snowflakes tumbled and whirled through the air on that February morning, pounded incessantly against the frosted windows of the proud Palazzi on both sides of the Canal Grande, lined the hats of black-clad men with white lint and created surprisingly beautiful patterns on the window of a small café, tucked away just around a corner of the Canal Grande, close to the fish market.

At the table closest to the window, a young man sat, nursing a cup of hot chocolate and staring pensively outside .It would have been a scene many a painter would have been delighted at-the wintry Venice outside just hinted at, just barely seen through the steam rising up from the man's cup, and the young man himself, pale and black-haired and beautiful with even a touch of surrealism.

On first sight, the young man seemed completely composed, yet a closer look showed that his fist lying on the table was curling and uncurling, while his thin lips became even thinner. He dropped his look to his watch from time to time, and the line of his mouth thinned every time he did. On one such occasion, his eyes fell on a slim black Lady's glove that was lying next to his table on the gleaming tiles of the floor as if by accident. A small smile curled the corners of his lips and he picked the glove up, inhaling a familiar smell of moorland herb and gingerbread.

"Finally," he murmured.

"A Lady is never late, darling, you would do well to remember that," a light voice admonished and a slender hand was held out in a clear gesture of demand in front of the man's eyes. "My glove."

He arched an eyebrow as he handed the glove over. "So may I inquire as to what took you so long?"

"The apparition point in Central Switzerland was quite overcrowded," was all she said, casually dismissing his question as if it was a pesky mosquito. He looked at her steadily, a cunning light stealing through his eyes for a second before it was gone as if it were merely a trick of the light.

"I see," he replied calmly, noting the way she seemed to have trouble putting her leather gloves into her handbag because her long-fingered hands were trembling too much to unclasp the intricate golden little fastener that held it together. "Allow me," he said smoothly, opening the handbag in one fluid motion and putting the gloves inside. Then he helped her out of her coat, letting his fingers linger a little longer on her shoulders than he would have needed to.

She laughed shakily and sat down. "It's cold outside…" she began but trailed off. He took in her flushed appearance and the cold-reddened nose and chuckled dryly.

"Why do you feel the need to defend yourself, Minerva? I believe you."

She smiled briskly, composure regained, and ordered a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, no milk, from a waiter in passing.

"Of course, Tom."

Tom said nothing but continued to observe her: her green eyes seemed especially lovely in this glassy, stingingly intense winter whiteness and the snowflakes caught in her thick dark strands of hair were just beginning to melt and turning into sparkling diamonds of wetness. A delicate flush was starting to reappear on her cheeks due to his intense scrutiny and she bit her lip, a bad habit already acquired in her childhood days.

"So how long have you been working for him?" he abruptly asked cuttingly.

She didn't gasp, to her credit, but she bit her lips so hard that she drew blood and he saw it.

"Please," he eventually said, leaning back in his chair to gaze leisurely around the café; black-and-white uniformed waiters passing through rows of long-legged black-wooden tables that were mostly occupied by couples- much like themselves. A lazy grin stole itself onto his face for a second as he indulged himself in the fancy of being a young man who was just taking his girlfriend out on a coffee for a Sunday afternoon. He looked again at Minerva.

"Please," he repeated, slightly condescendingly- but then again had she not thought she might ever truly deceive him with such badly-formed lies, now had she?, "I know you are not as prone to shivering and trembling from cold weather so as that you might not be able to open your handbag. I remember those schooldays, Minerva, when you would hurtle through the clouds in icy hail and rain storms on your broomstick like a red-and-golden shape, rendering Gryffindor victorious time and time again. Besides," he sneered, "you've always had that slight problem of being a little too admiring of the old fool Dumbledore."

She had listened calmly, taking a few sips of her coffee.

"Things can change, Tom;" she pointed out, her voice and face like marble- hard and opaque.

Tom chuckled softly and it was this sound that finally made her wince.

"Playing chess with me, are you, Minerva? I've always been better at chess than you are, my sweet. You're too…impulsive for your own good." He leaned closer without giving her a chance to reply, narrowing midnight-blue eyes filled with frightening intensity.

"What do you want, Minerva?" he whispered huskily, their lips almost touching. "The moon? I can give it to you. The world?" He paused. "Just say it," he breathed," say it and it is yours. "

She was gazing at him, the green eyes wide and insecure like long stalks of grass trembling in a breeze. Then she seemed to comprehend her own doings and slowly, her eyes filled with tears.

Rearing back, she hissed venomously: "I didn't want to believe it, but the more I learnt about your plans, the more I see, the more I realise that Albus was right. You are poison, Tom. Pure poison."

With that, leaving him stunned for a second, she grabbed her coat and handbag and was out of the door before he could have reacted.

Tom cursed. He threw a few coins on the table to pay for their drinks, although a quiet voice inside his head wondered why Lord Voldemort needed to do something as mundane as paying beverages- never mind that now- and followed her.

She was wearing a red coat and he followed that coat over the ancient bridges, passing red-bricked houses with intricate arches and lovingly-designed doorknockers, ran along the edge of silent canals wherein a second Venice seemed to be in existence in form of reflections of the white and red and yellow houses lining the canal, passed quizzical-looking gondoliers and a few soldiers with unspecified nationalities, though English-speaking- and landed finally on the grand Piazza San Marco, St. Mark's Square, the heart of all of Venice.

It was carnival time and everywhere he looked, people with expressionless white masks that left only the eyes free and colourful costumes looked back at him. He looked around- and then he had her.

She was standing with her back to him right next to a group of red-, orange- and golden-clad Venetians. Before he could reach her though, he was suddenly enclosed in a mass of arms and bodies. The red and golden fabrics brushed past his face and entangled his legs. When he was struggling to break free, his wand hopelessly out of reach, the expressionless masks danced painfully close to his face.

A pair of red lips came close to his cheek and warm breath brushed over his ear. He shivered and closed his eyes, unable to hide the sudden rush of feeling that came with knowing whom those lips belonged to. She brushed her lips lightly over his dark, wavy mess of hair, traced the contours of his face with a slender finger and then kissed him, as lovingly and tenderly as if their conversation had never happened.

Just as Tom was getting lost in the kiss, she pulled away and he opened his eyes. Her eyes were just inches away from his own, green orbs filled with a multitude of emotion. "I love you, Tom," she mumbled, "I truly do, but you are pure poison."

She pulled away and when he reached out, he only managed to rip her handbag off of her shoulder. The faceless masked Venetians refused to let him go for a few minutes, and then just stepped aside, leaving Tom to get up and level a dark glare at them.

They bowed at him- quite regally so- and without saying a word went away; a mass of white masks and red and golden fabric.

Minerva was gone. Tom slowly looked down at the handbag in his hands and pulled out her gloves, smelling the familiar scent of moorland herb and gingerbread.

He smiled. "I am going to return these to you, Minerva. One day I will and you better be ready for it."

With great steps, he turned and went away. Hidden behind a column, a green-eyed young woman watched him go, suppressing tears.

Then she pressed her lips into a thin line, straightened up and nodded once to herself. Mere seconds later she disappeared seemingly into thin air, while in the City of Venice snowflakes continued to perform silent pirouettes and adorned the colourful costumes found on the Piazza San Marco with white.

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><p><em>-Fin-<em>


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